She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth in a torrent from which she had to turn and wheeze. The Denunciation VI. “I might go home, I don’t know. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. It’s all very fine and all that, Vee, this freedom, but it isn’t going to work.
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